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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487113">Cusping Winter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GawkyGhostie/pseuds/GawkyGhostie'>GawkyGhostie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Growth, Complete, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Original Nonbinary Character/Original Male Character - Freeform, Other, Pining, Suggestive Themes, Underage Drinking, one long ramble honestly, rambles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:40:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487113</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GawkyGhostie/pseuds/GawkyGhostie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years are better than others, but one fact is always consistent; the only way to go is forwards.</p><p>A series of short rambles involving progressing birthdays of my OC, Dot, with mention of a friend's OC Kyle. Written between November and December 2019, but may end up adding more in the future.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dot Pennington(oc) and Bea Smith(oc), Dot Pennington(oc)/Kyle Reeves Graham(oc), OC/OC, Original Nonbinary Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. First, or Maybe the Sixth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! Decided to post a set of birthday rambles I wrote in late 2019 for a beloved OC of mine. Each birthday is a chapter, so some will be long while others only a few sentences. It doesn't have much context, but is understandable without it even so I think, since the focus is more on their experiences and less on actual plot. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their first birthday, they didn’t even know it was their birthday, or what that meant, or that it wasn’t actually their first one, really. Bea had made the two of them a lovely cake for dessert that night after dinner, a sweet they were eager to dig into, although their guardian made them eat a few more bites of their vegetables first before they could have a slice. But the woman didn’t serve the fluffy sponge right away, even after the dishes had been done and Dot finished wiping the stained and chipped table of the occasional splatter and stray crumb. Instead, she placed six very, very small candles in it, which Dot found odd because candles don’t go in cakes, and how can a candle that small help you see? It seemed silly, and dumb. Once the cake touched the table, however, their guardian reached for a tall cupboard to pull out what looked like a wrapped package with a bow, small and just slightly shimmery, and the child’s attention perked up a bit at that. Whatever it was, it sure was shiny and pretty.</p><p>Dot asked what all of this was about, and Bea explained. The ghost didn’t entirely understand what it meant, not really – but Bea was happy, and the cake was good, and blowing out the candles was a little bit fun, and the colored pencils in the gift box made them so excited and smile so wide they almost took off the ground. They asked if they could do another birthday tomorrow, but Bea said no, that it was only once a year on this day in November, and Dot deflated a bit at that, but they soon perked once more. They couldn’t wait until November next year.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Eighth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their third birthday – or their eighth, Bea told them over and over, because they’re turning eight or something – was lonely. They had been asking Bea about their birthday constantly ever since the woman told them it was November. Is it their birthday yet? No, their birthday isn’t until the twentieth. Can they have their birthday earlier this year, then? No, birthdays are only on one day, and that day cannot change. Well, can they have it a bit early anyway? Please? <i>Please</i>? <i>No</i>, now go on and finish your bookwork.</p><p>They could hardly wait. They were so excited. When the twentieth finally came on the calendar, Dot drew a bunch of sparkles on the date with one of their stubby colored pencils. The ghost skipped through the halls, or skipped as well as they could in their unstable, deformed state, and a few of the men they passed watched in almost unnerved uncertainty. Wolf observed them as they moved about near Baxter’s quarters, the usual stone on his face, but his blue-gray ears twitched at them. Calm, collected, he asked what they were excited about, and with half-formed, misty grin on their face, energetically told him their birthday! Today was their birthday! They were so excited about it. Bea’s making them a cake that they’ll eat after dinner, and they’re gonna blow out some small, silly candles, and he can come, if he wants. It’d be nice to have someone other than just Bea to celebrate with. Most of the family probably wouldn’t come if they asked, but Wolf might. The man didn’t really respond other than a curt nod though, walking away down Baxter’s hallway after Dot invited him. Huh. Maybe he’ll come, then?</p><p>The ghost played for a while longer, entertaining themselves until dinner, and they almost hurried themselves to the kitchen, eager to be early for their meal. But the joy on their face turned to confused puzzlement as they turned the corner of the hallway towards the entryway of the kitchen.</p><p>Bea wasn’t there.</p><p>Strange – very strange. Bea’s always here at this time so they can make dinner together. The cake sits on the countertop, but it’s only halfway iced, part of the vanilla sponge bare and exposed. Weird. She must be in the bathroom, or something. Maybe on an errand. Bea does lots of errands.</p><p>The little ghost moves to sit in their dinner chair, scooting themselves inwards as the wooden legs of their seat scrape across the floor, and they wait. Tiny feet sway back and forth. Fingers tap and fiddle. A quiet voice hums to itself. But still, even after a long, long while, Bea does not appear. The child sniffles to themselves quietly. Where’s Bea? They don’t want to have their birthday without Bea. It’s no fun without her here. It feels bad. Lonely.</p><p>Still, Dot waits. But as it gets later into the night, they grow more and more defeated and upset. Bea told them their birthday is only on this day, and they don’t want to miss it. But they don’t want to have it alone, either. What should they do? Go to bed? They’re really tired. But they really want cake. But they really want cake with Bea. Why isn’t she here? Where is she? Where is Bea?!</p><p>In the end, Dot grabs a fork from a nearby drawer and reaches on their tippy toes to take a few bites out of the half-iced cake, eating as much of it as they can reach from the counter before setting the fork down next to the sink. Even though the cake was yummy, they didn’t eat very much. Their tummy doesn’t feel good. The ghost heads straight to bed afterwards, tired and unsure and sniveling.</p><p>Bea doesn’t show up until a few days later. Dot instantly runs into her arms as soon as they see her, the woman limping as she approaches them from down the hall, and those big, muscular arms feel so nice and comforting around their teeny tiny frame. When they separate, Dot notices the many wounds on her body, maims intermingling with severe burns, and the child nearly starts to cry, upset at the state of their guardian. But Bea is quick to soothe, holding the ghost gently in her strong limbs as she strokes their misty hair.</p><p>Later, however, the woman tells Dot that their birthday must be a secret, and that they cannot invite anyone ever again. Dot agrees.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Eleventh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their eleventh birthday, Dot really, <i>really</i>, <b>really</b> wants to invite someone to their birthday.</p>
<p>They know it’s supposed to be a secret, and they know why, ‘cause Baxter doesn’t like it, but the child remains antsy all day, jittery and distracted, to the point where even Kyle asks them if something is going on, because while Dot’s usually playful and excited around him, they’re usually not this jumpy. The ghost squirms at his question, obviously wanting to say something, but small lips remain tightly shut, even pursed as they seem to struggle to not make a sound.</p>
<p>It's only a little bit later in the day, after Kyle’s done that thing they really like where he lifts them up and tosses them around with his wings, that the child just can’t take it anymore. They have to tell him. They have to. This is too much. Kyle won’t say anything to anyone, they know he won’t. Kyle loves them, and wouldn’t hurt them ever.</p>
<p>“Okay, I gotta tell you something,” they say quietly to him, tone soft but obviously overzealous, as if only barely containing itself. “But it’s a secret, so you gotta promise not to tell anyone, okay?”</p>
<p>They lean in close to his ear, mouth almost against it as they raise a tiny hand to cup around the side of their face, the younger now whispering excitedly. “Today is my birthday!”</p>
<p>The younger turns from his ear then, moving to face him with a wide grin and sparkling eyes, and their voice no longer whispers as they prattle on eagerly. “Bea and I celebrate after dinner with a big cake. I know you’re gonna be there for dinner tonight, but I wanted to tell you and invite you anyway.”</p>
<p>White wings flutter despite themselves, fluttering with floofed excitement as they stare at him with large purple eyes. “I don’t need a gift, or anything. I just really want you to be there, if you wanna stay after we eat.”</p>
<p>Maybe they should’ve asked Bea if it was okay to invite him before they said anything, but they’re not really worried about it. Kyle would never tattle on them, after all.</p>
<p>And when Kyle shows up to help make dinner that night with a small package shoddily wrapped in newspaper in hand, Bea does give him a long look. But it soon fades into an almost soft smile, pleased and gently happy, before she and him start preparing dinner together. After their family meal, Bea brings the cake to the table, and Dot can’t help the zealous flapping of their wings as they begin singing for them. The light breeze from their feathers blows out the candles before the two even stop singing, but Dot doesn’t mind. The cake is delicious, and Bea has gotten them the fingerless gloves they all but begged for, the ones that look like the pair Kyle likes to wear a lot, and Kyle got them a partially used sketchbook, old and drawn in with his own work that Dot admires, and the ghost hugs them both tightly, even though it takes Kyle a moment to hug them both back. And after they all clean up their dishes and the table, the trio sit together on the couch in the common room to watch a movie, Dot snuggling up between the two of them, and the child can’t help but hope that every birthday will be like this one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Twelfth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For their twelfth birthday, something is missing. Bea makes them dinner, but the kitchen lingers in newfound silence. Only one voice sings to them as they blow out the candles. They thank their guardian for the cake, but remain still afterwards, and although Bea attempts to lull them into simple chatter, Dot merely responds curtly, or not at all.</p><p>The pair watch a movie once more after their meal, same as last year, but the ghost hardly pays the film any mind. All they can think about is the empty seat on their left, unoccupied and depressingly warm.</p><p>It’s been months, now, since he left, but they still miss him horribly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Thirteenth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their thirteenth birthday is the worst and best day of their life, but mostly the worst. Baxter completes the ritual. Their life completely falls apart. They escape their homely prison of thirteen years. They’re left to fend on their own. Their lose their mother.</p><p>It’s rainy and cold, and they’re shivering and bloody in an alleyway, huddled into themselves for meager, fleeting warmth, and Dot's mind drifts to anywhere but reality.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Fifteenth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They weren’t alone for their fifteenth birthday, unlike the previous year. It’s around four o’clock – no, no, maybe five o’clock. They’re not entirely sure; they never know the exact time once they’re home in their abandoned, crumbling alcove since they own neither a watch or a phone. Either way, though, the sun’s setting, and Dot has a general sense of time from that at least. They’ll need to get ready for their new job soon, once it’s completely dark.</p><p>It’s during their dinner time when they hear the sound of shuffling and loud voices coming from the singular decrepit alleyway entrance, and the ghost has to hurriedly put out the fire they had been stoking to warm their tin can of soup. Nearly stumbling as they hastily tuck away whatever evidence of their presence may be lying about, the teenager almost doesn’t make it, but they manage to hide the most obvious signs of themselves away just as a group of adults – young adults, it looks like – maneuver and slip their way through the crumbling alleyway walls. Dot scowls at the boisterous group from their position behind rotting wooden beams and distorted brick, near glaring at them with slit purple hues. They hadn’t expected anyone to come by today, with the weather being as cold as it is, and the threat of rain on top of it, and the group’s sudden intrusion has them near grumbling. Well, so much for eating something before work for once. Hopefully they all leave before nightfall, otherwise they’ll have no choice but to mist out of here, and they’d much rather not do that if they don’t have to. They’re low on energy as it is.</p><p>The four strangers – two guys and two girls, all in their mid-twenties, maybe – converse and kid in heavy, dense accents that the ghost barely understands, but they all seem energetic and jovial. The metallic, unmistakable sounds of shaken cans of spray paint fill the air, followed by contemplative chatter and obnoxious laughter, and Dot can’t help but eavesdrop and observe from their hidden perch, watching as the group cover dirty brick in neon droves and colorful symbols. They chortle, paint, and snack, enjoying their time and each other’s company, and the ghost’s mind wanders to what-if’s and fantasy, imagining themselves down there in the old courtyard with them, spraying cans of color and cracking awkward jokes. They smile just so to themselves, soft and bittersweet as they mouth silent retorts or responses to the strangers’ conversation and lighthearted quips as they place themselves among them, right there, between the tall, lanky guy and the redhead with the cute, wavy hair.</p><p>But it doesn’t last. The four only stay for about an hour or so, the dark November night creeping and settling early as it steals away the sun, and they all abandon whatever cans of leftover spray paint happen to be lying about before squeezing themselves through the dark, narrow exit of the longstanding lot, voices echoing and zealous before steadily fading into too still silence. It’s only once their tones fade to nothing that Dot emerges from their home, crawling over piles of rubble into the courtyard to speculate. They’ve made quite a mess, bottles of paint and open bags of snacks scattered about, but the piece they painted on the wall stands bright and colorful. A portrait of this lost place, but not entirely – neon and cityscape clash with an era long past, fusing the bright technological present with the style and people of previous millennia, and Dot stares at the piece for quite some time. It’s truly beautiful. They did a wonderful job. The teenager can’t help but ponder and fantasize of how fun it must be to paint and create with other people, working together to formulate something so unique and eye-catching, and they almost wish they had someone they could –</p><p>Thunder erupts from above them, low and distant, but pressing enough for lilac hues to drift upwards towards a dark, nearly ominous cloudy sky. Rain, of course – it always rains, doesn’t it. Hopefully the paint on the mural dries before it starts to drizzle. They’d hate to see the piece lost so quickly.</p><p>The ghost collects whatever cans of paint and snacks remain, storing whatever’s not empty with their stock of food and miscellaneous items while tossing all the leftover trash in a pile to deal with later. They snack on a few leftover cookies – something to eat before they head to work, at least – as the teenager starts getting dressed in their usual uniform, thoughts and ideas of what they could paint for themselves with those leftover cans of paint on their mind. Placing a large, slightly dirty blue tarp on their belongings in the hope that at least some of it won’t get wet, Dot heads towards the deep, shadowed crevice of the alleyway as they make their way towards the busy, bronzed London street.</p><p>Maybe, if they’re lucky, those people will come back another day. Maybe they’ll say something to them.</p><p>Days, weeks, months pass. Dot never sees the group again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Seventeenth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their seventeenth birthday, they <i>almost</i> get laid. It’s late, and dark, nearly midnight, and prickling wind blows so fierce and unrelenting the ghost would swear a blizzard was looming. The snow has held off, thankfully, but the cold has not, the chill of dawning winter arriving earlier than usual this year, and the rattling cold of the night entwining with the northern gusts does nothing for their boney, skeletal figure. Normally nights like these they spend in cafes or libraries or even fast food joints, anywhere open late and available to someone their age that might offer a bit of refuge and warmth from turbulent, weathering evenings, but this particular day hits them especially hard, head wracked with anxieties over their recently lost job and repulsive memories that play unwantedly through their throbbing, ruefully migrained head.</p>
<p>So, instead, the teen, in their wrought state, does something they’ve never done before.</p>
<p>The club’s music pulsates loudly and near painfully, the sound and mildly disorienting lights doing nothing for their headache, but the discomfort and unease that eats at them dulls slightly after their third shot of vodka. They sit alone at the bar, miffed gaze drifting between the lit neon bottles and the crowd swaying and grinding on the dance floor. The ghost merely indulges in their drink, grateful for the solitude even under the circumstances. A woman nods in their direction, urging and offering them to join in with her on the dance floor, but Dot quickly turns away, breaking eye contact with her and choosing to focus on the slightly stained counter top. Even in this state, there’s absolutely no way in hell they’d ever dance out on the floor, regardless of how much they might drink. Never ever.</p>
<p>They’re in the middle of “encouraging” the bartender to work on their fourth drink, mind slightly hazed and a touch tipsy when a young man sits next to them at the bar. The ghost tenses at first, a little irked and maybe a touch peeved considering the copious number of unoccupied bar stools around that aren’t directly next to them – but the guy orders his drink, ending it after that, and silence ensues. For a moment, the teenager relaxes, nerves letting up just a touch at what appears to be the end of whatever interaction the two may have, but the guy soon turns slightly to face them, saying something to try and grab their attention, and amethyst hues drift to the side to size the stranger up. He’s cute – not handsome, necessarily, maybe in a way, but mostly cute. Pretty. Quite short and small compared to them in their larger, broader form for sure. A few bandages sit on the young man’s face, obviously tending to multiple wounds and bruises, to the point where even his plush bottom lip is split. Rabbit ears sit atop a messy, short head of hair, tall and erect and man, how fun it would be to nibble and bite such cute features. The pretty, sharp eyes aren’t helping things either.</p>
<p>Maybe they’ve had a little too much to drink.</p>
<p>The bunny tells them his name, but it’s hard to catch with the noise – Lucas, Luca, Lu-something – and Dot gives their name in turn. They chat for a bit as they nurse their drinks – well, chat as best they can considering their surroundings, anyway – and Dot likes the guy. He’s kinda brash, and adamant, much harder and fierce than he looks, that’s for sure, but it’s almost endearing in its own way. Attractive. They talk for a while, quite a while, actually – the ghost isn’t really sure of how much time has passed in this place, but it has to be a few hours at least. It’s nice to talk to someone, conversing made much, <i>much</i> easier from the alcohol sitting warm in their belly, and Lu-something seems to be enjoying himself as well. And he’s not half bad to look at either. Quite the opposite, in fact.</p>
<p>Seems their wandering eyes haven’t gone unnoticed by their rough and tumble companion, however, because the next thing Dot knows, the shorter’s leaning rather close against their ear, close enough for the ghost to hear his offer of leaving this club and going to his place quite clearly, and shit, is this dude for real? Has he been checking them out too? Is this actually happening right now?</p>
<p>The eased warmth in their gut quite suddenly churns into twisted nausea, uneasy and strikingly heavy, and the easy haze lingering in their mind clears abruptly as Dot finds themselves now much, much more sober than they had been just a moment ago. Something eats at them, heavy and needy and nervous, even scared, and <i>fuck</i>. Something in their blood, something primal and hormonal screams yes, yes, go with him you idiot, you want this, but something deeper, much, much deeper screams louder, desperately screeching at them to stop, <i>stop</i>, don’t do this, you need to get out of here, you need to get out of here <i>now</i>. Instincts tug and turmoil. They really don’t feel good. They want to go. They really, really <i>don’t</i> want to go, they don’t, they can’t, they <i>can’t</i>, they –</p>
<p>They excuse themselves, speeding out a hasty departure as they rise from their seat, urgently maneuvering through the crowd to get to the exit doors as soon as possible. Air, they need air – god, why is it so hard to <i>breathe</i> in here all of a sudden, the atmosphere feels so fucking thick – </p>
<p>A deep, long, cold inhale wracks their body, as do turbulent gusts that thrash and dishevel their slicked white locks, and the chilled night air feels like the first true breath they’ve taken all night. It almost grounds them in its own way.</p>
<p>God, what were they <i>thinking</i> going to a place like that, somewhere they know makes them uncomfortable, puts them in situations that make them uncomfortable. It only made their mental space <i>worse</i>.</p>
<p>Dot mists away whatever gooey, intoxicated feeling might linger unpleasantly inside their veins once they’re safe in their alleyway, and although the pinned up tarp and layers of thick blankets help in easing the blow of the blistering wind, they do nothing to help their restless mind, on edge and unable to drift into slumber.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Twenty-First</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their twenty-first birthday, Dot’s so overwhelmingly relieved they nearly tear up.</p><p>The apartment is dingey in all the worst ways, walls covered in residue smoke and floor more than a little inconspicuous with broken tiles or missing tiles altogether. The only source of natural light comes from a muggy patio door, the glass, full length of it somewhat obscured by freckles of guck. Only two rooms make up the whole of the apartment, a small kitchenette-living space combo and an even smaller, rather tight bathroom, and everything about the place reeks of musty old pipes and aged wet wood. It’s dismal, frankly, and the landlord is absolute shit, and the neighbors are always angry and loud and the building is on the absolute worst side of town possible, without a doubt.</p><p>But it’s a <i>home</i>.</p><p>The ghost sets their two duffel bags of belongings on the floor and heads straight for the patio, the cruddy door squeaking as it opens on unoiled hinges, and they stretch their great, lean wings outwards and across the space, enjoying the unusually warm breeze that ruffles and graces their feathers. It’s quite dark out, the only light around them emanating from bronzed, flickering street lights and the cool moonlight above, and although the view from here isn’t great, it isn’t all that bad, either.</p><p>There’s so much to do still. Tomorrow will be spent out at the dollar store buying cleaning supplies and maybe a small thing of paint, if it’s cheap enough, and the rest of their hours will no doubt be dedicated to giving this entire space an overhaul. The toilet and shower really need a heavy elbow grease scrubbing, as do these murky walls, and the floor needs mopped, and the cupboards wiped, and the stove top burners and bowls soaked, and rugs, they’ll definitely be needing rugs, and they should look at that mattress store on 17th, sometimes the employees just toss out their old, unsold stock –</p><p>A whole list of things crosses their mind in this shithole they now call home, but even with the circumstances, at least they can call it home, and for the first time since they were thirteen, Dot doesn’t have to worry about putting up old tarps to protect themselves from the weather or hiding away their meager stash of belongings from view, or sneaking into gyms or community centers to shower, and the relief they feel is almost overbearing.</p><p>Their legal documentation finally came through after years of money and effort, explicit proof of their residential status. They have a flat. A relatively stable job. Enough money to not have to scrounge around in the dark anymore, if they don’t want to.</p><p>The ghost raises a demure hand to their face, lean fingers wiping at light moisture forming at the corner of their royal eyes. Finally, finally, things are starting to look up for the better.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Twenty-Fourth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their twenty-fourth birthday is the first birthday they’ve earnestly celebrated in over a decade. It’s spontaneous. Sudden. Unexpected, in all the best worst ways, with spur-of-the-moment scenarios and moments they predicted playing out sullenly that twisted and morphed into something beautiful and memorable. It’s offhand, not a big deal really at all, not even a passing thought other than the pin-pricked tinge of previous years and long since past memories they’d prefer stay locked deep, deep down somewhere where they can forget anything before their twenty-first birthday ever existed. Casual. Whatever. Not even worth mentioning at all, actually. They wouldn’t have done it period save for the fact that they happened to be talking about the fall weather during their walk around the block after their nap, and Dot mentioned how it’s always some sort of chilly or rainy or windy on their birthday, to which their friend asked when that was, then, and they answered simply ‘yesterday’, blunt and honest.</p><p>The absolutely flabbergasted, slack-jawed, open eyed expression Kyle decides to throw on his face almost elicits a chuckle, but the admittance followed by the mutt’s outrageous reaction to it leaves them more embarrassed than anything, and a touch defensive.</p><p>So what if they didn’t tell him? Is it that big of a deal? They don’t think so, but Kyle vehemently disagrees, disagrees so wholeheartedly and so strongly that he’s taking them by the wrist and pulling them into his arms with legs breaking into a sprint across the sidewalk and wings flapping loud and wild, and Dot struggles to see anything past their viciously flurrying hair as they ascend into the cloudy November skyline. Wherever Kyle takes them – and Dot doesn’t care where, can’t be bothered to think about such a trivial thing when he holds them tight against his chest like this, bodies soaring through the air with small arms coiled firm and snug around his neck – it’s nowhere Dot’s seen before. Their friend has a habit of dragging them off to enjoy any place he deems exciting at the time, and this proves no different. The shopping district bustles and flows with cold, bundled bodies, some lax with their hot drinks to warm them, some hurrying to escape the sharp bite of northerly winds, but surprisingly, Kyle moves with purpose. They wander with intent, the man leading them to a local art and craft store, a cozy garden themed café, a blown-glass emporium, an antique store with various enticing trinkets, all of which leave the younger with a positive impression. Hours pass as they talk and meander with relative guidance, and while it’s not the cozy, chill and maybe lazily screw on the couch evening Dot had anticipated, the ghost finds themselves reveling in this much more.</p><p>By the time they’re done eating dinner at some hole-in-the-wall joint Kyle took them to, because Kyle knows about everything everywhere as they’ve learned, Dot has two small paper bags between their fingers and one gentle smile on their face. They make a pit stop on the way back to the man’s apartment, the pair descending on a sight the younger’s become all too familiar with, and when Kyle emerges from his café with a napoleon in hand, he says he knows it’s not the same as a full fledged cake, but he made it all the same, and succeeds it’ll have to do. Dot bites their lip and tries not to cry as his arms wrap underneath their legs and they rise into the nighttime atmosphere for the third time tonight.</p><p>When they descend on that fourth-floor patio, Kyle sets them down gentle and easy and reaches for his keys in his back pocket, but Dot stops him. The man glances down at them with puzzled green orbs, face scrunched for a moment in silent questioning, but dainty arms quickly pull him in towards them, close and snug as their chests pull together, and even though it’s cold and gusty, the ghost doesn’t mind the extra chill from their companion. When they talk, it’s soft, gentle, almost inaudible and in all honesty a touch more open and forthcoming than they’d like, but the words spill breathlessly from their lips as they are, and Dot doesn’t need to find the energy to hide them.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Larger, longer, colder arms snake along their waist and back, and the younger settles into the touch comfortably, easing into it like second nature, body nearly dropping as tension eases from their figure. It lasts a moment, longer than a moment, really, long enough for them to think that maybe they should pull away now, yet they don’t really care at all. They do lean back, though, draw their head from his chest just enough to stare upwards into emerald eyes, bright and radiant under the city lights, bright and radiant as <i>always</i>, though, really, and slowly they lean themselves upwards, tilting their head to snuggly fit painted lips against dry ones. It’s soft and gentle, lingering and comforting with no intentions behind it other than it being what it is, in the moment, as they are, and it’s the first time Dot really thinks they <i>want</i> something from this, want more than just a crazy night out or a casual fuck in the kitchen, more than vulgar jokes and friendly nicknames and occasional soft touches and stares that linger too long to play off as nothing but will be blamed as such anyway. All of their body seems to clench at the mere thought, the mere idea, limbs wrought with freezing tension and emotions so wild they rile and clump and condense into dead mass that crushes them under their own weight.</p><p>It’s beautifully terrifying, and though their chest claws and digs at their very insides as it ascends desperately up their throat threateningly to speak, plush lips seal violently, paralyzingly shut.</p><p>The coarse, choking lump in their throat is <i>unbearable</i>.</p><p>Mouths part. Eyes stare. But not too long, god, not too long, Dot can’t let it be too long, not right now – and their bodies separate as Kyle turns away from them with keys in hand. They refuse to let it linger. They refuse to let ideas treacherously spread. Their – their – <i>the</i> man makes a joke, something crude and offhand with that dangerously easy grin of his, and Dot smiles, and it’s easier to be distracted after that, after he talks to them endlessly like it’s the simplest thing in the world.</p><p>Eating their birthday dessert on their favorite cold, trembling, groaning dinner plater a little bit later on in the night certainly helps too.</p>
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